Then Andy Buckley’s battered Caprice pulled up at the curb, and started rolling again as soon as I was inside it. The night was clear and cool and I caught a glimpse of the moon. It was gibbous, and just about the same shape as it had been the night we dug the grave. It had been waxing then and now it was on the wane.

“Andy was trying to reach you,” I remembered to tell him. “He wanted your number, but I let him think I didn’t have it.”

“When was this?”

“Yesterday, early evening. Have you talked to him since?”

“Yesterday and today as well. He had the Cadillac and wanted to trade cars.”

“So he said.”

“I told him he had the better of the deal, but he was afraid to park the thing for fear some harm would come to it. Least of my worries, I said, but he would have none of it. He put it back in the garage and now he’s driving some old wreck of his cousin’s.”

“That’s what he said he was going to do.”

We’d turned on Broadway and were heading downtown. “Now where’ll we go?” he wondered. “Just so we’re going somewhere and doing something. It’s the inactivity drives a man mad. Knowing the other side is up to something, whoever they are, and not knowing what, and doing not a thing about it. I sat up all last night with a bottle and a glass. I don’t mind drinking and I don’t mind drinking alone, but I wasn’t doing it for the pleasure of it. It was out of boredom, and that class of drinking is deadening to the soul.”

“I know what you mean.”

“You did some of the same in your day, did you? And lived to tell the tale. What luck have you had with the detecting? Are we any closer to knowing what we’re up against?”

“We know more than we did,” I said. “TJ found out a few things about the Vietnamese who shot up the bar, and we’ve got a line out for something on his partner.”

“The bomb thrower, that would be.”

“That’s right. And I’ve got a sketch of one of the two men who mugged me.”

“They were the ones mugged, by the time it was over.”

I let that go. “I’ve got a sketch,” I said, “but so far no one’s recognized it. There were a lot of things I might have done today, but I had to spend it at home taking care of TJ.”

“Why, for the love of God? Hasn’t he managed for years taking care of himself?”

“Oh, of course, we haven’t talked since then. How could you know?”

“How could I know what?”

“He was shot last night,” I said.

“Fucking Jesus,” he said, and hit the brake pedal. A car behind us braked hard, and the driver leaned on his horn. “Aaah, fuck yourself,” Mick told him, and demanded to know what had happened.

I told him the whole story. I broke it off when we got to McGinley & Caldecott, resumed the narration after we’d stowed the car in its parking space and made our way down the stairs and through the narrow aisle to the office. He poured himself a drink, and from a table-model refrigerator he produced a can of Perrier.

“They didn’t have bottles,” he said. “Only the cans. It should be all right, don’t you think?”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine. I’ve been known to drink tap water in a pinch, as far as that goes.”

“Nasty stuff,” he said. “You don’t know where it’s been. Get on with it, man. You left him for dead, the black bastard?”

“He was on his way out. He couldn’t have lasted long. It was black comedy, now that I think about it. The two of us stood there snarling ‘fuck you’ at each other. I can’t swear to it, but I think those were his last words.”

“I wouldn’t doubt they’re the last words of more than a few of us.”

I told him how TJ’d been shot, and how I got him home. “I put a gun to the cabdriver’s head,” I said, “and at the end of the ride he gave me his card and said to call him anytime, any hour of the day or night. I love New York.”

“There’s no place can touch it for people.”

When I was finished he sat back in his chair and looked at the drink in his hand. “It must have gone hard when you turned to the boy and saw he’d been shot.”

“It was strange,” I said. “I’d just been shot twice myself and watched the bullets bounce off. And I’d shot back and my bullets didn’t bounce off, and I felt as though I was in charge of the world. Then I turned around and the bottom fell out, because while I’d been feeling like the master of the universe TJ’s blood was oozing out between his fingers, and I didn’t even know what was going on.”

“He’s a son to you, isn’t he?”

“Is he? I don’t know. I’ve already got sons, two of them. I wasn’t around much when they were growing up and I don’t see much of them now. Michael’s out in California and Andy’s in a different place every time I hear from him. I don’t know that I’ve installed TJ in their place, but I suppose he’s a sort of surrogate son. To Elaine, certainly. She mothers him, and he doesn’t seem to mind.”

“Why should he?”

“I don’t know that I act like a father to him. More like a crusty old uncle. Our relationship’s fairly ritualized. We joke around a lot, trade good-natured insults.”

“He loves you.”

“I suppose he does.”

“And you love him.”

“I suppose I do.”

“I never had a son. There was a time I got a girl in trouble and she went off and had the baby and put it up for adoption. I never heard if it was a boy or girl she had. I never cared.” He drank some whiskey. “I was young. What did I care about children? I wanted only to be left alone, and she went off and had the child and gave it away, and I heard no more about it. Which was as much as I cared to hear.”

“It was probably best for the child.”

“Oh, of course it was, and for the girl, and for myself as well. But every now and then I’ll find myself wondering. Not what might have been, but just wondering how the wee one turned out, and what sort of a life it had. Night thoughts, you know. Nobody has such thoughts in the light of day.”

“You’re right about that.”

“For all I know for certain,” he said, “it may not have been my child at all. She was an aisy sort of a girl, if you know the word.”

“Same as easy?”

“I’d say it’s the same word, but there’s a softer sense to it when you say it the Irish way. An aisy girl. She swore it was me put her in the club, but how could she be sure? And how could I?” He looked at my can of Perrier and asked me if I wanted a glass for it. “You can’t drink water straight out of a can,” he said, and found a clean tumbler in a cupboard, and poured the water into it for me, and assured me it was better that way.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Years later,” he said, “there was another one I got in the family way, and I never heard about it until she told me she’d got rid of it. Had an abortion, you know. Jesus, that’s a sin, I told her. I don’t believe that, says she, and if it is then the sin’s on me. Why didn’t you tell me, says I. Mickey, says she, to what end? You weren’t about to marry me. Well, she was right about that. You’d only have tried to talk me out of it, says she, and I’d already made up my mind. Then why tell me at all, says I. Well, says she, I thought you’d want to know. I’ll tell you, man, women are the strangest creatures God ever put on the earth.”

“Amen,” I said.

“There’s a saying, or mayhaps it’s the words of a song. It holds there are three things a man must do in the course of a lifetime. Plant a tree, marry a woman, and father a son. Well, I’ve planted trees. In the orchard, and then I put in a great windbreak of hemlock, and I planted horse chestnut trees along the drive. I don’t know how many trees I’ve planted, but I’d call it a fair number.” He lowered his eyes. “I never found a woman I cared to marry. And never fathered a child. Even if it was my baby she had, it takes more than that to make a true father of a man. So I’ll have to be content with my trees.”

“Then again, your life’s not over yet.”

“No,” he said. “Not yet.”

 

A little later he said, “You killed the man who killed your friend. Good for you.”

“I don’t know if it was good for me. It was better for me than it was for him, I’ll say that much.”

“I wouldn’t have left him breathing, myself. Even if it was his last breaths he was taking. I’d have put one more bullet into him to make sure.”

“It never occurred to me. I wasn’t planning on killing him.”

“How could you not? He killed your friend.”

“Well, I’ve killed him now, and Jim’s still dead. So what difference did it make?”

“It made a difference.”

“I wonder.”

“What the hell were you going to do? Pay him two thousand dollars and shake his bloody hand?”

“I wasn’t going to shake hands with him. And I wasn’t going to pay him the money. I was going to stiff him.”

“And then turn your back on him and walk out the door? How did you expect him to take it?”

I was silent for a moment, thinking long thoughts. Then I said, “You know, maybe I set it up, and set myself up in the bargain. I didn’t consciously intend to kill him. When I walked in there and saw him I couldn’t even manage to hate him. It’d be like hating a scorpion for stinging you. It’s what they do, so what else can you expect from him?”

“Still, you’d grind that scorpion under your heel.”

“Maybe it’s not a good analogy. Or maybe it is, I don’t know. But I wonder if I knew all along that I was going to kill him, and if I stage-managed things to give myself an excuse. Once he drew on me, I had permission. I wasn’t murdering him, I wasn’t executing him. It was self-defense.”

“And it was.”

“Not if I made him draw.”

“You didn’t make him draw, for Jesus’ sake! You offered him money.”

“I told him I had the money on me, and I let him know I was the man he was supposed to kill. Isn’t that baiting the trap? If I wanted to keep him from drawing on me, all I had to do was walk in there with a gun in my hand. I had every chance in the world to get the drop on him and I didn’t take it.”

“You didn’t expect him to try anything.”

“But I should have. What else could he be expected to do? And the fact of the matter is I did expect it. I must have, because I was already reaching for my gun by the time he came up with his. Somehow or other I anticipated his response or I could never have responded so quickly myself. He opened fire, and that was my excuse, and I gunned him down.”

“I hear what you’re saying.”

“And?”

“And whoever knows the reasons why we do what we do? I’ll say this much. If you blame yourself for killing the bastard, you’re off your head.”

“I blame myself for getting TJ shot.”

“Ah, I never took that into account. Still, who’s to say it’s not for the best?” I looked at him, puzzled. “What the soldiers call a million-dollar wound,” he explained. “For he’s out of it now, isn’t he? And should live to tell the tale.”

 

A little later he said, “’Twas the vest saved you, was it?”

“The shirt I was wearing was ruined,” I said. “But the vest stopped both rounds.”

“They say it won’t stop a knife thrust.”

“So I understand. It’s a kind of fabric, and evidently a knife blade can pierce it. I suppose the same thing would be true of an ice pick.”

“Is it heavy? Like wearing a coat of mail?”

“It’s not featherweight.” I unbuttoned my shirt and let him examine the vest, then buttoned it up again. “It’s an extra layer,” I said, “and might be welcome on a cold day. On a warm day, you’re tempted to leave it at home.”

“It’s a great thing, science. They make a vest that can stop a bullet, and next they make a bullet that can pierce a vest. It’s the same as armies are forever doing, but on a more personal level. A good thing you were wearing one last night.”

“Do you want one? Because they’re easy enough to buy, and nobody has to teach you how to use it. You just put it on.”

“Where would you get one?”

“The cop shops have them. I went downtown, but there’s one on Second Avenue near the academy, and others in the other boroughs. What’s the matter?”

“I’m just seeing myself walking into a cop shop. They’d never let me walk out again.”

“I’d pick one up for you, if you want.”

“Would they ever have my size?”

“I’m sure they would.”

He thought about it, then let out a sigh. “I wouldn’t wear it,” he said.

“Why not?”

“Because I never would. Because I’m a fool, I suppose, but it’s the way I am. I’d have it in mind that I was trying to get the best of the Lord, and that He’d show me who’s boss by making sure I got shot in the head, or done with a knife or an ice pick.”

“Like Achilles.”

“Just so. The heel was the only vulnerable part of him. And so he was shot in the heel, and died of it.”

“That’s superstition though, isn’t it?”

“Didn’t I say I was a fool? And a superstitious one in the bargain. Ah, there’s differences between us, man. When you get in a car you always fasten your seat belt.”

“And a good thing, too, when you stop short the way you did tonight.”

“Didn’t you give me a turn, though, saying the boy was shot? But the point is that you always wear a seat belt and I never do. I can’t bear the feeling of being confined that way.”

“A vest wouldn’t confine you any more than a shirt does. It would just keep bullets out.”

“I’m not explaining it well.”

“No, I guess I understand.”

“I just don’t want to do what I should,” he said. “I’m a contrary bastard. That’s all.”

 

“There’s just the four of us,” he said. “Tom and Andy and yourself and myself.”

“Don’t you have anybody else?”

“I’ve people who work for me, or do the odd job. They’ll head for the hills now there’s a war on, and why shouldn’t they? They’re not soldiers at all, they’re what you could call civilian employees. So that’s four of us, and who knows how many there are of them?”

“Fewer than there used to be.”

“We each did for one, didn’t we? Though the one you shot was hired help, and the same could be true of the Vietnamese. Wasn’t he the murderous little bastard?” He shook his head. “I wonder how many that leaves. More than four, I’d guess.”

“You’re probably right.”

“So we’re outnumbered, and outgunned as well if that automatic rifle of his is anything to go by.”

“Except you took it, didn’t you? So it’s ours now.”

“And small use to us, with the clip close to empty. I should have seen if he had a spare in his pocket. Although as I recall we were in a bit of a hurry.”

“You saved my life that night.”

“Ah, go on with you.”

“Just stating a fact.”

“What did we say when we were kids? ‘I saved your life the other day, I killed a shit-eating dog.’ I’m glad childhood comes early in life because I’d hate to go through it now. Tell me something. What did you think of that movie?”

“To change the subject.”

“It could do with changing. Did you care for it?”

“What movie was that?”

“Michael Collins. Didn’t you tell me you rented the video?”

“I thought it was good.”

“Did you? It was all true, you know.”

“I was wondering about that.”

“They took the odd liberty. The scene in Croke Park, when the British rake the crowd with gunfire? In fact they used a machine gun, not the revolving gun in the armored car. It was an image sticks in your mind, the way they did it, but what happened was terrible enough.”

“It’s hard to believe it happened at all.”

“Oh, it happened well enough. The other thing they did, they had his friend Harry Boland die in the fighting at the Four Courts. Collins’s friend, he dives into the Liffey and a soldier shoots him?”

“I remember.”

“’Twas years later he died, long after Collins was buried. He lived to be a minister in Dev’s government. He was a sanctimonious bastard, Dev. Your man who played him had him just right. Even looked like him.” He took a drink. “He was the best of them. Collins, I mean. He was a fucking genius.”

“When he wiped out the British agents,” I said. “Was that part accurate? Killing them all the same day?”

“That was the genius of it! He had his spy in Dublin Castle, yes, but then he gathered his information and bided his time. And killed all of the flickers of a Sunday morning. It was over before they knew it had begun.” He shook his head. “Listen to me, will you? You’d think I knew him. He was dead and in his grave fifteen years before I was born. But I’ve studied him, you know. I’ve heard the old men’s stories and I’ve read books. You start off with a lot of heroes, you know, and then you learn a bit about them and they’re heroes no more. But I’ve never ceased to admire Collins. I wish . . . no, you’ll think it too queer.”

“What?”

“I wish I could have been him.”

“Elaine’s answer to that would be that maybe you were.”

“In a past life, do you mean? Ah, it makes a nice story, but it’s hard to believe in it, isn’t it now?”

“This from a man who has no trouble with transubstantiation?”

“But that’s different,” he protested. “If the nuns had drilled reincarnation into my head I’d believe that, too.” He looked away. “’Twould be pleasant to believe I was the Big Fella once. But what a fucking comedown for himself, eh? To be Michael Collins in one lifetime, and to come back as Mick Ballou.”

 

He said, “We were talking of guns before. Are you still carrying the same one?”

I nodded. He held out a hand and I gave it to him. He turned it over in his hand, lowered his head and sniffed it.

“Cleaned it since you fired it,” he said.

“Yes, and reloaded it. At least the cop who takes it off me won’t know it’s been fired recently. But I ought to get rid of it altogether.”

“Ballistics.”

“Yes. They wouldn’t make the match unless they looked for it, but they might look for it. I’d have tossed it by now but I didn’t want to walk around unarmed.”

“No, you can’t do that. But I can help you out.” He opened the satchel he’d brought from Grogan’s, pulled out guns and set them on the desk. “These automatics are good,” he said. “Or are you partial to revolvers?”

“That’s what I’m used to. And don’t automatics tend to jam?”

“So they say, but I’ve never had it happen to me. Either of these would give you more firepower than what you’ve been carrying.”

“I don’t know if they’d fit in the holster.” I tried one, and it didn’t. I put it back and picked up a revolver not unlike the one I’d been using. It was another Smith, but chambered for magnum loads. I tried it in the holster and it was a perfect fit.

“I’ve no extra rounds for it,” he said. “There’d be a box in the safe, and there they’ll stay. Have you had a look at the old place?”

“The bar, you mean? Only on television.”

“I drove past it. Sad to see it like that.” He shook off the memory. “I ought to be able to get hold of some shells to fit this thing.”

“I’ll buy a box tomorrow.”

“Jesus, that’s right. You’ve a permit, they’ll sell you whatever you want.”

“Well, they won’t sell me a bazooka.”

“I wish they would. I’d buy one, if I knew where to point it. It’s hard to fight what you can’t see. Take this, in the meantime.”

He handed me a little nickel-plated automatic that lay in the palm of his hand like a toy.

“Here,” he said. “Put it in your pocket, it weighs next to nothing. There’s only the clip that’s in it, but it’s not the sort of thing you’d be likely to reload.”

“Where did you get it?”

“I took it away from a man years ago, and I can tell you he’ll have no further use for it. Go ahead, put it in your pocket.”

“Two-Gun Scudder,” I said.

 

It was like one of our long nights at Grogan’s, with the door locked and only the two of us left. There were people dead and the world going to hell around us, but for all that it was an easy night, or even an aisy one. The conversation flowed, and when it ran out from time to time there would be a long silence.

“When you die,” he said thoughtfully, “’tis said you see your whole life. But you don’t see it minute by minute, like a speeded-up film. It’s like everything you ever did in all your days was a brushstroke, and now you see the whole painting all at once.”

“It’s hard to imagine.”

“It is. What a picture that would be! ‘Twould be worse than the dying, to have to look at it.”

 

There was something I’d forgotten. I was wondering what it was and thinking I ought to get on home when Mick said, “So he was no help at all to you.”

“Who are we talking about?”

“The man you left for dead. Did you ever tell me his name? I can’t recall.”

“Chilton Purvis.”

“Ah, you told me. I remember now. He had nothing to tell you?”

“They never told him a name, or gave him a number to call.”

“Or if they did he wouldn’t tell it.”

“He’d have told me anything at that point,” I said. “All he cared about was getting to the hospital. When I showed him the sketch, he ID’d the thing before I got it unfolded. He’d have sworn that was the guy who shot JFK if he thought that’s what I wanted.”

“You mentioned a sketch,” he said. “Just before you told me that the boy was shot.”

“Which was right around the time you stood up on the brake pedal and gave the guy behind us a heart attack.”

“Aaah, he should learn how to fucking drive. But this sketch. You never said your man in Brooklyn saw it.”

“I don’t know that he really saw it. ‘Yes, mon, that’s him’—but he barely looked at it. I showed him another sketch by the same artist, someone he couldn’t possibly have seen, and yes, mon, that was him, too. Which one, I asked him. Both of them, he said. And anyone else I wanted to throw in the hopper, just so I hauled his ass to the ER.”

“He’s looked at another picture now,” he said. “His whole life laid out before him. He’ll identify that straight enough. Do you have that sketch on you?”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake.”

“No harm if you don’t. Next time’ll do.”

“I’ve got it,” I said, “and I meant to show it to you hours ago. He’s hired help, but my guess is he’s a lot closer to the top man than Chilton Purvis or the Vietnamese. Maybe you’ll know him.”

I got out my wallet, found the sketch of the man who’d hit me, showed it to him. It was well drawn, he observed. You got a real sense of the man. But it was no one he recognized.

“Now the other one,” he said.

“It’s just a face,” I said. “Somebody I thought I recognized, but couldn’t place. I couldn’t get the face out of my mind, so my artist friend drew it.”

He took the sketch and the color drained from his face. He looked at me and his green eyes were fierce. “Is this a joke?” he demanded. “Is this a fucking joke?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’ve seen this man, have you?”

“At Grogan’s, the night we buried Kenny and McCartney. I just had a quick glimpse of him but he’s got a memorable face.”

“Indeed he does. I’ll never forget it.”

“You know him?”

He ignored the question. “And you recognized him.”

“He looked familiar to me but I couldn’t place him. TJ says he thinks he’s seen him around the neighborhood.”

“And is that where you’ve seen him? Around the neighborhood?”

“I don’t know. I almost think . . .”

“Aye?”

“That it’s a face from the past. That I saw it years and years ago, if I ever saw it at all.”

“Years and years.”

“But who is he? You know him, obviously, but I never saw you react like that. It’s almost as if . . .”

“As if I’d seen a ghost.” He stuck out his finger, touched the sketch. “And what do you think that is? What’s that if it’s not a ghost?”

“You’ve lost me.”

“I’ve lost it all,” he said, “for how am I to contend with a ghost? What chance have I against a man who’s thirty years dead?”

“Thirty years?”

“Thirty years and more.” He took the sheet of paper in both hands, brought it closer, held it at arm’s length. “Just the head,” he said. “All you’d put in a drawing, isn’t it? And it’s how I saw him last, and how I see him in my mind. Just the head.”

He threw down the sketch, turned to me. “Don’t you see it, man? It’s Paddy Fucking Farrelly.”